Cruisin'

June 2, 2013

Yesterday was a day of observation.  I observed some things that made me feel good. I observed some things that made me feel not so good. I got to observe the effect of really great music on my soul.  I even got to observe that sweet potato fries with honey mustard sauce are the bomb. I think the good won.

Observation #1.  I was sitting in a coffee shop near a couple who were both working on their computers. There wasn’t a whole lot of conversation, but the vibe was definitely comfortable. At one point he bought a pastry. After a few bites he mentioned how good it was.  She picked up the pastry, had a bite and then declared that she was going to eat the rest.  Here’s where it got interesting. There were no derogatory remarks, no whining, no grumping about how she always does that. He simply, graciously, let her have it and good naturedly got up and bought another. He sat down with the new pastry and happily commented, again, on how good they were.   I guess the most telling thing is how stunned I was.

Observation #2.  I was walking down the sidewalk, looking for a place to eat dinner, when I passed a 60-something man.  About 25 feet behind him was a woman about his age. As she passed I heard her call after him saying, “I’ve asked you to slow down. Will you please wait for me?”  He didn’t even acknowledge her.  He just kept walking.  I’m pretty sure his hearing was just fine.  In this case I was not stunned.  Sad is more like it. With a hint of weary. And gratitude for the reminder that alone is not the worst thing one can be. I continued my search for a place to eat but eventually gave up.  I was no longer hungry and it just wasn’t worth the effort.

Observation #3.  Having given up on dinner, I rode my bike to the turnaround  and sat on a bench to watch people. My attention settled on a family walking across the sand.  There was a man and a woman and three young boys. He was strikingly handsome and fit.  She was not.  A second couple with a new baby joined them.  I watched as the woman took pictures of everyone . . .  the man with the 3 boys . . . the couple with the new baby.  She was not included in any of the photographs.  Then the entire group migrated down the beach towards the water and she slowly followed after them. Those are the facts.   I was too far away to hear conversations or tones of voice or observe details like wedding bands, so anything beyond those facts is made up.  But I suddenly had the very surreal sense I was watching a movie of my life 15 years ago. Had she been young and beautiful and fit at some point?  Had she lost herself in the mire of being a wife, having babies and raising babies and making sure everyone was taken care of? Was she exhausted?  Hopeless? Invisible? Did she take comfort in food and bottles of wine after everyone went to bed?   I sat there on the bench and cried. Yes, I know I was just projecting my own shit in her general direction, but I also recognized that slump to her shoulders - and I don’t think I was too far off.  But the cool thing is, there was a lot of release in those tears. And I know how the story goes – at least up to this point. And it isn’t all bad. In fact it just gets better. I wanted to tell her that, but in truth, I don’t think she was the one who needed to hear it.

Observation #4 . Still sitting on the bench . . .  from somewhere nearby, music starts to register.  It’s an electric guitar, being played in a very slow, mellow, jazz style and an exquisite voice gently singing some old Smokey Robinson  “ . . . I love it when we’re cruisin’ together”.  I sat there listening till the sun set and it was too cold to stay any longer.  I put money in the musician’s jar, looked him in the eyes, told him his music was beautiful and thanked him.  It occurred to me that he had fed my soul. That’s what I was hungering for.  And all of a sudden I was ravenous and knew exactly what I wanted.  And yeah, that U Street Pub veggie burger with sweet potato fries couldn’t have tasted any better.

Addendum: September, 2013 . . .
I printed out this story and kept it at the Seaside house. This month, I came across the same musician playing on the Promenade. I raced home, grabbed the story and hurried back to the musician. I dropped some money and the print-out in his jar; told him he had made a real difference in my life and had written about it and then went on my way. He just nodded and smiled.

Addendum: May, 2014 . . .
Same musician at the Seaside Turnaround . . . I dropped a few dollars in his jar and asked if he'd play 'Cruisin' again. He smiled and immediately complied. I was listening to the music, swaying to the tune, when I saw a young woman amble into the middle of the sidewalk and start dancing to the song. I said, 'Right on!' and joined her. We danced and chatted. . . . the only two people dancing as Promenade traffic moved around us. Her name was Rachel and she's a shipwright newly moved to the coast. We shared one dance, hugged and moved on to the rest of our evening. I know the musician saw us connect through his music. I can only imagine it was pretty cool. Can I convey to you how much I love this place???

The Boneyard

May 4, 2013 I participated in the "Interesting Gorge" event in Mosier, OR.  When invited to speak I was fresh off an inspiring weekend at the coast and was feeling brave. Ha!  Then the terror kicked in. What did I have to offer a room of several hundred people. What was I thinking?!!!  But I had been contemplating the ideas discussed below and felt so passionately about them I didn't care if I sounded a little crazy.  I saw it through and was stunned by the response. Weeks after the event people I didn't know would still come up to me in the grocery store with kind comments about my talk.  I have come to the conclusion that when one speaks an authentic truth, people respond.  So I kept writing. And then some poetry started flowing out of my pen and again people, especially lovely, powerful women I admired, responded. The floodgate appears to have opened. And so, in the words of Cheryl Strayed, I started to "write like a motherfucker".  For what it's worth, I share it here. 

May 4, 2013

Over the last 5 years I have fallen in love with the Oregon coast.  

I love the gray, the wet, the rocks, the grit, the smell, the taste. . . 

There is a particular spot I return to over and over again. 

It’s a rocky area near Seaside’s cove that covers many acres.  

I return visit after visit and love exploring the nooks and crannies. 

It is different every day – 

four times daily in truth – 

I never know what the last tide will have washed in - 

or out.

But the day I came face to face with a dead seal I began to look differently at what I’ve affectionately come to know as The Boneyard.

As I watched that seal slowly decompose over the better part of a year, 

I began to notice all the other remains in The Boneyard . . . 

shells that used to house sea creatures, snails, bird skulls,  wings . . . 

and then I started thinking about the floats and baskets and entire trees and ropes and fishing lines and lighters and toothbrushes and syringes . . . 

and it began to seem that this was a place of endings. 

Even the rocks and driftwood began to look like bones.

This brought to mind one of the teachings of Buddhist nun, Pema Chodron - 

the ‘charnel ground practice’. 

In some areas of Tibet the ground is too frozen to bury the dead, 

so they cut the bodies into small pieces and leave them at the charnel ground for birds and animals of prey to scavenge. 

This place can be very frightening and uncomfortable . . . 

eyeballs, hair, fingers and bones are scattered everywhere. 

The monks living nearby go to these grounds to sit and meditate, getting in touch with the discomfort and their fears. 

It isn't just about sitting with the fear, but learning to regard whatever arises as the very energy of wisdom. 

In Pema’s words, it allows us to “look at our propensity to be bothered and our lifelong efforts at avoiding that which bothers us.”

So I started looking at my Boneyard as a sort of charnel ground with the opportunity to contemplate the sometimes messy, violent and uncomfortable endings  . . . 

seals oozing away to a pile of scattered bones . . . 

birds that look like an explosion of bone and feathers . . .  

strands of kelp and seaweed that looked like entrails, 

the silent remains of a campfire,. . . 

my own broken heart . . .

and somewhere along the way the awfulness faded away to a strange kind of beauty . . .

 the sand dollar perfect in its brokenness. 

The endings became new beginnings . . . 

whether a dead body providing nourishment for another creature, 

a sad little lost red shovel that will bring joy to the kid who finds it,

the mossy, spring green slug moving slowly past the remains of its cousin’s abandoned snail shell,

 brilliant green plant seedlings magically appearing out of the dead looking sand . . .

And the constancy amongst all that living and dying is the Ocean’s unending waves. 

The waves that carry these treasures in to shore. 

The waves that carry them all back out again.  

All in her good time. 

All to her own rhythm. 

Every six hours.  

Without fail. 

I have grown to love this place.

 It’s where I will live someday. 

It’s where my ashes will be scattered. 

I want to always be part of this beautiful cycle. 

I recently came across the following passage, written by Terry Tempest Williams in her book “When Women Were Birds”.  I don't think I could express it any better:

“ . . . it is here I must have fallen in love with water, recognizing its power and sublimity, where I learned to trust that what I love can kill me, knock me down and threaten to drown me with its unexpected wave. If so, then it was also here where I came to know I can survive what hurts. I believed in my capacity to stand back up and run into the waves again, no matter the risk."